The Five Stages of Grief
by mtowntimeagent
Summary: A short mini-series of John going through the five stages of grief after the Reichenbach Fall. Chapter one is up. Thoughts and comments are always appreciated!


Days 9 - The Grave Side Meeting (Denial)

It had been nine days. Just nine days. But to John Watson, it had been an eternity.

His mind seemed to move at its own leisurely pace now. He hadn't gotten much sleep since it happened. He didn't know what to call it. People had called it 'the end' or 'the fall'. He couldn't. He couldn't even put a name to it. Lestrade had called him in for questioning, but his thoughts had strayed. His mind had gone numb. He had spent his formidable years fighting for Queen and Country. _But for what?_ He wondered. Of course he knew the _literal_ answer. But in his mind he wondered when the injury would stop. When everything would just stop hurting.

Mrs. Hudson made his go to the graveside that day. He hadn't wanted to go. He knew that Sherlock would have found the whole affair tedious. People standing around, talking about him like they knew him. When none of them did. Not really. No one except for John. But Mrs. Hudson had insisted. So he put his clothes and went.

He had been staying at his old flat. He had gone back to 221B three times. Three times since it happened.

The first time was that same day. He didn't cry that day. Not a single tear. He walked in, crawled into Sherlock s bed, and went to sleep. When he woke up, he couldn't breath. He felt like the walls of the flat were too small. Like Sherlock's room was closing in on him. He stumbled out of the flat, down the stairs, and onto the street, gasping for breath. He said he'd never return.

The second time, he had to gather some of his things. He had been staying at his old flat for a day or two, and he needed clothes. He walked in, and ignored the tears with a stone face. He went to his room, gathered his things, and didn't even glance into Sherlock's room. He said he'd never return.

The third time was yesterday. Lestrade said he needed some information and files, so he went into the flat to get Sherlock s computer. He felt a breaking feeling tugging at his heart, but he ignored it. He limped out of the flat, and said he'd never return.

He stood at the graveside with Mrs. Hudson as she talked. He offered condolences and comfort with a straight face. He seemed to be doing that a lot. He was comforting people who didn't know him as well. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Even Angelo had shown up at his flat in tears with a plate of spaghetti. But in the back of his mind, John knew the only reason he was able to comfort these people was because Sherlock wasn't really gone. He couldn't be. Someone who was that much of a dick, and that clever They couldn't really be gone.

Once Mrs. Hudson left, John began his speech. "You you told me once that you weren't a hero." He started, his voice seeming to come from somewhere else. Why was he doing this? "There were times that I didn't even think you were human." He said, wanting to laugh, but not being able to remember what it sounded like, he continued. "But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human...human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie." He told the headstone. He joked to himself that it was just like talking to Sherlock sometimes. Icy cold and didn't listen. "And so _there_." He said with finality. Yet the words continued. He reached up, touching the edge of the cold stone, something he realized reminded him of Sherlock s painfully rigid cheekbones. "I was so alone and I owe you so much." He finished, turning to walk away. Then he stopped, and quickly returned. "Please, there s just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me." He said. He knew Sherlock didn't believe in heaven or hell. He knew that if Sherlock really was dead, then he wasn't listening from some higher plane of existence. But that's why he was talking. Because he knew it just couldn't be. "Don't...be...dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop, just stop this." He told him. He just wanted him to come home. Come back to 221B and continue to be an annoying git. Leave heads and fingers in the fridge. Forget to buy him beer. To put the kettle on and forget because he was so lost in thought and the bloody thing boils dry. The memories flooded him, and he placed his hands over his face and wept. He wasn't weeping because Sherlock was dead. He was weeping because he didn't know how to live without him.

****

Alright. This was just kind of a trial run to see if I could get any feedback. Any thoughts would be appreciated!


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